


Tomorrow

by ssironstrange



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), IronStrange - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amputation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Other Avengers Mentioned - Freeform, Post-Infinity War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 17:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15587154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssironstrange/pseuds/ssironstrange
Summary: After Thanos was defeated, Tony was never quite the same. All his friends and teammates have been pushed away. Everyone except for Stephen, who has stubbornly refused to leave him alone. However, not even the Sorcerer Supreme could stop his downward spiral.Six months after the defeat, during a Gala held to honor the heroes of the Earth, Stark finally breaks. Stephen is the only one able to see his inward collapse... and he hopes he can get to Tony in time to save him from himself.





	1. Chapter 1

     These sort of extravagant gatherings used to be amongst his all-time favorite social affairs, mainly for the fact they were held on his account. Being honored for his signature technique, his extraordinary skill, the sheer amount of money he injected into the hospital—oh the list went on. That seemed like a lifetime and a half ago. Stephen couldn’t quite bring himself to be upset at those who organized this whole shindig—their intentions were good and the world probably needed to see this to help heal freshly sutured wounds, but he had to wonder if anyone had considered how much deeper the wounds of their heroes were. None of them were yet ready to return to a normal life, and yet there they all were gussied up in their finest with forced and fake smiles to distract from the pain and horrors each of them were living. That included himself. If he were ever asked, Stephen honestly would have never guessed he would ever be wearing something as expensive as a three-piece Armani suit tailored just for his build, but Stark had gone out of his way for each of them and spared no expense. If they had to participate in this gross display of normality, then at least they would look their very best while pretending—the billionaire’s sentiments. So, Stephen stood amongst the crowd in his dark navy, silk suit with a deep violet button-down beneath it offering a lovely contrast, and mingled just like all of them were doing. Or… almost all. Tony Stark, the only other person who used to love the spotlight as much as his former self did, kept mostly to himself along the edges of the room nursing a new glass of champagne every ten minutes.

     His fellow teammates already knew to give the man his distance, but here he seemed to radiate a negative energy that actively drove people away from him—only the boldest journalists and socialites daring to approach him. They would leave disappointed as Stark offered little more than bitter quips and angry comments. Stephen kept him within sight at all times over the course of the evening just in case that anger blossomed into something worse. These days, Strange was the only one who could handle his outbursts—or him in general, really. No one else had the infinite patience he did. No one else believed there was still hope for him.  
     Tony Stark had shouldered the responsibility of saving the universe and the weight of it all had broken him into so many pieces that it _did_ seem hopeless that he could ever be put back together again. To anyone whose mind didn’t seek out the most complicated puzzles to solve, at least. It was going to take far more time than they had been offered so far—barely six months since the Mad Titan’s defeat—and a stubbornness to match Stark’s own. Stephen had been the man for the job since day one. Like hell he was just going to _give up_ on the person who saved his life and the countless others within their universe. Try as he might, and he certainly did, Tony couldn’t push him away like he had managed to do with everyone else. Stephen accepted every harsh tongue-lashing Stark delivered, easily parried the few physical blows he threw, and cleaned up every mess he made of his own home because he knew the place it came from. He knew it better than even Tony did. Eventually he managed to just wear him down with his refusal to leave—a victory Stephen was happy to take.

     For a moment, his attention was ripped away from Tony as a voice over the speakers crackled to ask that the Avengers assemble on stage—a pun the announcer found clever whilst the rest of them cringed. Gracefully, Strange weaved his way through the people towards the man who would sooner call him a royal pain in the ass than a friend.  
     “Tony,” His voice raised enough to grab his attention. Once close enough, Stephen plucked the slender champagne glass from his hand and offered him a sly grin. “Come on, time to smile for the cameras.” He tipped the glass to his lips, finishing off it’s contents before Stark could try and take it back.  
     “ _Fuck_ the cameras. Do they honestly believe anyone is going to buy this?” His words had a hint of a slur. Great.  
     “Yes, they do, and they are right. The world _needs_ to see us together, celebrating, looking like some sort of normal. We, unfortunately, are the placebo they’re going to swallow with the belief that they will get better.”  
     “ _This_ is not fucking normal!” Tony snarled, smacking the loose sleeve where his left arm should have been. “None of this is normal!”  
     “It is the _new_ normal.” Stephen didn’t flinch, nor back down. “So suck it up for ten minutes, turn on that Stark charm for whatever bullshit they have planned, and then we can get out of here and get blackout drunk at ho-- your place, deal?” Hopefully, Tony would be a little too drunk already to pick out that almost-mixup of words.  
     “Fine. ” Stark surrendered with a growl. Stephen grinned and clapped him on the back then lead him towards the stage where the rest of the team had started to gather.   
    Strange handed off the emptied glass to a passing waiter before taking the steps two at a time behind Stark, smiling to the rest of the team and striking up idle conversation, speculating what the hubbub was going to be about. Clint, Sam, and Thor managed to actually get some dialogue going with Tony and Stephen couldn’t help but smile a little. Rocket sat comfortably on the Asgardian’s shoulder, bickering with Quill over who-knows-what. Valkyrie settled into a rousing debate with Gamora and Nat over some Earth ritual she had seen. This was how it should have been, Stephen mused to himself. The various conversations faded down to whispered comments as presenters and sponsors took the stage, each thanking them for their efforts with flowery speeches that dragged on entirely too long for everyone’s taste. Finally, the Secretary General of the security council took the stage. The UN was nice and all, but these ceremonies seriously stretched for what felt like eternity. More congratulations were given, and then Stephen’s attention was grabbed out of the dull trance all of the previous monotonous speeches had lulled him into.  
     “...And so—for his bravery, unshakable determination, and the insurmountable sacrifices he made that day, to him we owe our lives. Tony Stark, would you please step forward?”

 _Oh shit._ Stephen tensed and so, too, did the others surrounding him. They all saw how Stark’s jaw flexed from grinding teeth, the way the hand at his side curled into a white-knuckled fist, and not even the tinted glasses he wore could hide the bitter rage lurking in his eyes. Yet, he came forward, managing the usual swagger to his steps and the classic, cocky smirk the public was used to seeing. Below, the audience had erupted into applause and Stephen could almost see the stitches keeping him together start to fray one by one. More heartfelt words of gratitude were poured upon him before he was presented with a medal of some sort—a new award made _specifically_ for Tony’s actions in his role of saving the known universe. It was draped around his neck and Stephen wanted to scream—couldn’t they see that _any_ more weight upon him was going to crush him? Couldn’t they see him unraveling before their eyes?  
     Stark took hold of the silk from which the medal dangled before it could settle and lifted it from around his neck again to give it a look. A long, silent, somber look. The world was watching, waiting for one of his rousing and inspiring speeches. What they would get would be anything but.  
    “This… this belongs to all of them.” Tony turned to the gathered heroes behind him, holding out the medal to Thor since he was closest. “I, uh, only did what I had to. They did all the hard work. I—I did what had to be done…” All that rage had melted away and in its place was something worse, something that twisted like a hot knife in Stephen’s gut. Something that no one else seemed to notice. Once Thor had taken the medal from him, Tony briskly walked off the stage, leaving a slow, confused applause from the crowd. Thor looked like a lost puppy holding the medal, but to keep it from appearing too awkward the Asgardian beamed a sunshine smile and lifted it high to rouse the crowd into a roar again. Stephen couldn’t care less. He only had eyes for the broken billionaire who had made a beeline straight for the open bar where he was already putting away entirely too many shots of whatever the tender would pour him. This… this was not good. Stephen had been down this road before—after the accident. He tried, Gods did he try his hardest to steer Stark away from that path with every fiber of his being. And he failed. Every desperate attempt crumbled under the weight of that medal.

     Stephen was looking at a man who could no longer see any options left and was forced to watch as that last stitch holding him together pulled apart. Every shot he threw back was his last sane attempt to smother an advancing darkness. Strange had been there, in that exact position, hoping against all hope he could fight it off if he could just get drunk enough fast enough. Hopelessness, unfortunately, worked much faster than alcohol. The second their little presentation was over, Stephen was off the stage and down the steps, weaving as politely as he could through the throng of bodies. A firm hand caught his bicep and he whipped around to see who it was to dare and stop him from his single-minded goal and came face-to-face with none other than Maria Hill, Director of SHIELD; The organization that had only recently re-emerged from the shadows it had been hiding in after its fall to HYDRA and subsequent nefarious infiltrations.

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

     That morning was no different from every other morning since he had saved the universe. He awakened to his own screams and the burning ache of an arm that no longer existed, sheets soaked in sweat. Sleep had always been his enemy, but now moreso than it had ever been. The nightmares were unending and violent and the pain always felt fresh. What made it all worse was that these weren’t just nightmares—they were memories he couldn’t escape from. Memories that haunted the backs of his eyelids.  
     This particular one was perhaps one of the worst. Slowly coming to after wielding his own gauntlet, muffled voices yelling back and forth, Strange and Nebula hovering over him drenched in blood, Mantis ushering a horrified Peter away, Drax’s unnaturally powerful grip holding his legs down. And pain. Blinding, burning, searing pain like he’d never even knew could exist coming from his left arm. He started to turn his head to see what the hell was causing it, but a trembling hand sticky with blood grabbed his face, pushed against his cheek to turn it the other way. “Don’t, Tony,” Strange’s voice barely registered but he could read it on his lips. He was still speaking, demanding supplies from Nebula, screaming at Quill as he piloted about anesthetics. He jerked his face out of his grip and laid eyes on what the Doctor had tried to keep him from witnessing—the mangled, shredded remains of his left arm, Strange’s other hand buried in the bloody mess of dangling muscle and flesh, his fingers clamped down tight on the brachial artery with what looked to be the assistance of his magic to keep it steady. And then he was screaming, screaming himself awake to realize that was reality.

     The nub at his shoulder healed, but the pain remained. Every hour of the day it ached and no amount of narcotics could lessen it. Strange himself had scrubbed in to the many surgeries following his return to Earth, channeling his own magic into his hands to do the job he didn’t trust anyone else to do. Yet the pain remained. T’Challa and Shuri had a prosthetic already in prototype mode that would be the most advanced the world had ever seen and while it looked every bit as real as his other arm, it _wasn’t_ real and it didn’t feel the same. It didn’t feel at all, actually, but they promised that was going to change. It didn’t matter. Not even tricking his mind to think an arm was there took away the pain. Nothing made him feel any less useless. And so he sank into his bitterness and anger and lashed out at everyone he possibly could. None of them knew what he’d had to go through to get them back. None of them knew how trapped within his own mind he was. Everything seemed to be a trigger for a wild panic attack. And then, of course, the nightmares. Stark succeeded in his mission of isolation—even Pepper he convinced to leave once and for all. For her own safety and sanity. No one else needed to suffer when they had lives to go and live again. Isolation was best, for all of their sakes.  
     Strange, however, remained a pain in his ass and hovered at every chance he could take. Tony tolerated it for a while if only for the fact he was about the only doctor he knew to have the skill set needed. But he persisted beyond that and insisted on accompanying him to physical therapy sessions and every prosthetic test and fitting. Stark pushed and pushed—sometimes quite literally—but Stephen didn’t budge. Eventually, Tony gave up and begrudgingly accepted the man’s mother-henning by telling himself the only reason that he lingered was for feeling responsible in some way. That was the only way it made sense—and just barely. Otherwise, it reminded him of the terrifyingly claustrophobic oppression of the cave that had birthed the Iron Man suit in the first place.

     Like clockwork, Strange showed up about half an hour after he woke up. They ran through their usual routine; Tony spent an hour bitching at him about anything he could possibly think of, Stephen made sure he took his medications, made him breakfast, spent ten minutes talking him into a quick workout, and helped him dress after a shower. Stark was about to ban him from that last bit now that he had some dexterity with one hand doing tasks that used to take two and loathed the coddling. Normally that was where they would have parted ways until evening, but with the Gala that evening the timing worked out better for Stephen to get himself ready while he was there. It would have been another usual day as far as his life went anymore, except when Tony stood in front of the mirror for a final once-over, he felt himself collapse internally. He hardly recognized himself anymore. Once sunkissed skin had gone pale and dull. Despite the meals Stephen insisted on making, Tony didn’t have the appetite for more than a few bites of anything and it was showing in the gauntness of his face. Muscle mass had dropped significantly without the intense, demanding workout that came with being Iron Man. Dark circles and heavy bags beneath his eyes revealed the depth of his insomnia. There wasn’t a single thing left he could bring himself to like about his reflection anymore. He _hated_ the ugly, useless, broken shell of man that stared back at him with so much contempt. Just when he felt the need to smash the mirror rising in his chest, Stephen was dragging him out to the car to take them out to the UN Headquarters.  
     The drive was uncomfortable. Stephen managed to keep his composure, but Tony could see the fear and anxiety coiled tight around him over being inside a moving automobile again. It was his own damn fault—he could have just as easily opened a portal to get there on his own. Instead he stubbornly refused, using some medical jargon bullshit and Tony’s discomfort traveling that way as an excuse. It was like the guy was competing with his own damn self to be the biggest pain in the ass. Thankfully it was a relatively short drive, or Tony might have had to dump his jittery ass out on the sidewalk.

     Tony had been there a dozen or so times and the little campus had lost its appeal long ago. Yet, as they drove past he found himself staring at the buildings. The sun glared off the Secretariat building’s solid side of windows; It was a hideous building, just a giant shallow rectangle covered in windows. He had half a mind to buy the damn thing just to demolish it and put something in place that was worthy of being part of the UN. His eyes lingered on it, squinting against the glare until they were too far past it and the car rolled to a stop in front of the  General Assembly building.  
     Disaster after disaster later, Tony found himself downing shots of vodka as fast as the man behind the counter could pour them, thinking maybe he could drink himself into unconsciousness to shut off the deafening roar that had begun within his head the moment he had been singled out on stage. It was a fight he had already lost, long before he ever even arrived. Memory after memory tangled with the intrusive noise, with the nightmares that always lingered like phantoms at the edges of his mind, with the overwhelming self-loathing that oozed across every last fiber of his consciousness like crude oil gushing from an uncontrollable leak. He cast a wild, frantic gaze across the sea of people that blurred together into one giant mass of judgement. They whispered along with the cacophony inside his head about how he could have done better and saved more lives, that if he had been more careful he wouldn’t have turned himself into a cripple. How he didn’t try hard enough from the start.  
     Everything collapsed in on itself into one point of singularity with the mass of a neutron star. There was an abrupt, startling clarity about what he had to do.  
     Tony emptied his wallet completely, shoving a thick stack of bills to the bartender while muttering and slurring and laughing about nothing that made any sense. With his watchdog distracted, Stark stumbled his way out of the building through a side exit that would allow him to escape without catching the eye of the paparazzi. Or anyone for that matter, except the security guard that lingered nearby who cared far too much about job security than telling a drunk Tony Stark he wasn’t allowed access to anywhere else.


	3. Chapter 3

     “Doctor Stephen Strange, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person.” Maria cheerfully greeted, but a firm tone of authority lingered in every word. Stephen offered a polite but tight smile. His heart was racing and pounding and his hands so unsteady that he had to hide them away into his pockets.  
     “Forgive me for not shaking your hand, Director Hill. Though I’m sure you already possess an extensive file about why. Is there something I can help you with?” Out of habit he had donned his classic Doctor Voice, full of courtesy and indifference with a particular haste to instill a sense of urgency. It worked surprisingly well on the average person.  
     “Nothing at the moment, Doctor. However, at some point we do need to arrange a meeting to give you credentials and clearance—and have you add your signature to the Accords.” The way she regarded him was cautious but curious, calculating his every movement and nervous glance.  
     “Most certainly a _discussion_ for another time. The Accords were not written with the knowledge of the existence of the mystic arts and I have the feeling not a single one of the Masters would be comfortable signing them as they stand currently.” _If at all_ , Stephen thought. He took up a tone of authority to match Hill’s now that he was speaking as Sorcerer Supreme. Strange shifted his weight from one leg to the other impatiently, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder every five seconds.  
     “I suppose you’re right,” Maria smiled easily and gave the arm she had grabbed a pat. “We’ll contact you sometime in the near future, then. Honestly, I look forward to hearing their opinions—and yours. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Doctor.” Off she went towards the gaggle of other heroes. Stephen abandoned what manners he had left to shove through people to get to the bar.  
  
     Tony was gone.  
  
     His stomach flipped and heart jumped into his throat. Where the hell would he even go? Stephen spun around in search of him through the bodies but there wasn’t even a trace of him. How the fuck did _Tony Stark_ slip out of any crowded building without everyone knowing about it? His chest felt tight, panic spiking and unfurling around a hammering heart. Done with keeping composure, Stephen hurriedly asked the tender which direction Tony had left in and then every person on the way questioned about if they’d seen him. One after another gave him confused but solid “No”s. How did this happen? Once upon a time, Tony couldn’t take a piss without everyone and their dog knowing about it and now, despite being the one awarded the highest honors, despite being the reason _they were even alive_ he went ignored. Stephen would have to be pissed later. The clock was ticking. The door leading outside from the side was all but kicked open, nearly scaring the guard standing nearby out of his skin. He was reluctant to give up any information until Stephen had him slammed against the wall and pinned with magical restraints that he intentionally made uncomfortable with sharp and stinging static. Stephen was almost afraid of himself, suddenly aware of the lengths he would go to find Stark before it was too late. The guard loosened his tongue without any further displays of violence and Stephen let him down.  
    “He mentioned the Secretariat building but that’s all I could understand, I swear!” The man blurted out, looking like he was ready to shed that uniform and never come back to it. Stephen was sure he had to be mistaken—there was nothing there beside offices for the routine day-to-day affairs the UN dealt with.  
    And then it hit him.  
    “Oh, Gods…” Stephen breathed out while jittery hands started patting himself down for which pocket he had dropped his sling ring into. The shaking was so intense he could barely even slide his fingers into the two holes. Why did he not piece it together sooner? He had known since spotting him scowling at himself in the mirror earlier that he was in a more unstable state than usual. Stephen should have recognized the way he had been staring at the building on their way in, he should have seen how he counted the stories, how his eyes flitted around the roof as if working out a complex equation. _Goddammit, I should have seen it!_ The portal opened and Stephen charged through it.

    The sight he came upon made him stop dead in his tracks, the gateway behind him closing silently. Thirty-nine stories up, Stephen stood on the roof of the building Tony had been staring at with a mix of hatred and curiosity earlier. Wind whipped at a constant at this elevation, gusts unpredictable and strong and cold. The only thing he could hear was his own pounding heart in his ears. Not even standing beneath the burning gaze of Dormammu to face countless deaths, nor handing over the Time Stone to Thanos instilled the deep, deep terror of what he stared at in anxious suspense. Stephen forced himself to move forward _so slowly_ when every fiber of his being wanted to sprint.  
     “Tony…” His voice was so small, so afraid he wasn’t sure if it actually made it out of his mouth at all. The tremor of his hands took his entire body, shivering not from the cold wind but from pure fear. Tony stood on the ledge of the building with nothing in front of him but open air and the concrete below. He swayed from his intoxication and the strength of the gusts—one inch this way or that would certainly send him over the edge. The winds pulled at his suit and hair as though trying to seduce him into its empty embrace.  
     “Tony, _please_ , come down,” His voice cracked around the painful lump in his throat and he crept forward more while feeling impossibly out of his reach. Slowly, Stark turned to look over his shoulder. His orange-tinted glasses were gone, likely taken by the wind, heavy lashes matted from the steady flow of tears streaming down his cheeks. Stephen felt part of his soul shatter and that very second vowed to the infinite multiverses Tony would _never_ again look this way with fear and confusion and sorrow and, Gods, the _fear._ He turned to face the nothingness before him again, tilted his head back, swayed a little more and adjusted his footing.  
     “There’s… I—I can’t…” Tony’s words were so quiet that Stephen just barely managed to catch them before the wind carried them away. “...no other way…”  
     “Yes, Tony, there is! I _promise_ you there is!” He gained a few more cautious inches on him. “Just come back to me, _please._ ” Stephen choked back the sob that wanted to rip free with desperate begging. He saw Tony shake his head before looking down.

     It was now or never.


	4. Chapter 4

     For how long Tony stood unbalanced on that precipice, he didn’t know. He was at war with himself, trying desperately to ignore every self-preservation instinct that kept him from tipping forward.  
     He was so tired. Tired of the pain and misery and the unending noise in his head. Tired of feeling like he was about to sink and drown. Tired of the toxic haze clouding his mind. He was just _tired_ . There was nowhere left to go. There was nothing left for him but more agony and mistakes to be made. He’d been in that deep, dark hole for so long watching the walls grow so high he couldn’t ever hope to see over them again. There was no escape. He was too broken to fix, for anyone to care to fix.  
     Tony had never felt more lost.  
     The pain was unbearable. His soul couldn’t take it anymore. There were only so many times he could be torn apart and pieced back together.  
     Time and time again he leaned forward, but each and every time his body jerked backwards. He pleaded with himself to give up and give in to the peace that awaited at the end of the fall. To just let it happen, end the agony. It wouldn’t listen. It never listened.

     Then, there was Stephen and Tony just broke down into silent sobs. Every instinct was pulled towards Stephen’s voice but he fought against it viciously. It was such an easy thing to just _fall_ , it shouldn’t have been this much of a struggle. He _had_ to do this. There was no other way. No other choice. No way out. He couldn’t bring himself to bear it any longer.  
     Yet the thought still lingered of his teammates finding him like that, the bystanders who would never be able to get that image from their head, the pictures that would be in the tabloids… the people he would be letting down. God, what would Peter think? He couldn’t do that to them—he couldn’t let his last act in this world be one of disappointment. He couldn’t. But he had to. Tony looked down again. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t keep going on like this. He _had_ to let go or he would just cause everyone more pain. He’d find some new way like he always did.  He would bring the world closer to its end or be responsible for millions of innocents slaughtered again. It always happened. It was always his fault. No matter how hard he tried or how many precautions he put in place, it was always his fault.  
     Tony inhaled deeply and leaned forward.

     Arms encircled him like a vice and his world spun as he was yanked backwards and went crashing against the rough cement of the rooftop with Stephen who clutched him so tightly Stark thought he might suffocate. Tony screamed and kicked and clawed at his arms to try and get free but Stephen didn’t let go, only held on tighter. Like a wild animal he fought against the steel trap of his hold, hellbent on getting back to the edge and putting an end to the maelstrom raging within his skull.  
     “I love you, goddammit!” Stephen screamed over Tony’s. He went still. Just like that reality came crashing down onto him like a ton of bricks. Stephen held on to him for dear life, _weeping_ against his back between whispered “I love you”s, each one a plea to just stay alive.  
     He had just nearly launched himself off a building. That sank in hard and fast.  
     “Oh fuck,” Tony sucked in a trembling breath. “Oh my g -- holy shit -- _fuck!”_  
     Stephen released his deathgrip just enough he could sit up and pull Tony up with him, who was now shaking nearly as much as Stephen was. Stark had turned to face him and now just planted his face against Stephen’s chest, breaths coming in ragged and rapid.  
     “Hey hey, it’ll be alright, you’re alive. You’re here. I’ve got you and I’m never letting you go, you hear me? We’ll get through this. Whatever it takes.” Stephen rubbed at his back and pressed grateful kisses against the top of his head, tears still falling but from relief. “You were right there with me in over fourteen million futures, Tony. We can get through this. I’m so sorry it had to be you. I’m so sorry I had to put that on your shoulders. _I’m so sorry… I love you,_ ” Stephen frantically rambled, fueled by the gut-wrenching fear of coming so close to losing him.  
     “Stephen…” Tony groaned. Everything was spinning.  
     Stark barely leaned back before he was retching violently. It was almost pure alcohol that came up and all over them both; If Stephen had to guess he had either reached a toxic level of ingestion or the sudden surge of adrenaline caused it—or both. His nose wrinkled from the smell of bile and the dry heaves that followed, but then found himself smiling and actually laughing softly.  
      _“I’msosorry_ …” Tony slurred out hoarsely. Stephen patted his back gently and stroked shaking fingers through his hair damp with sweat around the edges.  
     “Vomit is hardly the worst thing I’ve been on the receiving end of. It’s fine. _You’re_ fine and that’s all that matters.”  
     Tony was shrugging off his suit jacket, using the expensive garment to try and wipe himself and Stephen down, but was only succeeding in spreading it around. “Fuck… I’m sorry. I’m a fucking mess. Fu--ugh I’m gonna puke again.” At least this time he had warning enough to turn the other way when the retching started again.  
     “It’s alright. Get it out.” The doctor reassured him softly. While Stark finished emptying his stomach of a weeks worth of booze, Stephen opened up a gateway portal into the man’s luxurious bathroom. As soon as he was able to catch a breath again, Stephen scooped him up into his arms and cradled him against his chest as he crossed the glowing threshold into the tiled room. For once, Tony didn’t even try to put up a fight about it.


	5. Chapter 5

     Over the course of the next hour, not a single word was spoken. Stephen gave him all the time in the world to collect himself while going through the motions of cleaning him up—and himself while he was at it. A water bottle had been silently shoved into his hand, refilling every time it came close to empty which was often for how dehydrated he was. Once he was sober enough to stand on his own two feet without tripping and falling on his face, the first thing Tony did was brush his teeth, and Stephen couldn’t help but find that a little amusing. A good sign, too. He’d bounce back from this, of that he was certain. Stephen would make sure of it.  
     The tap of Stark’s _enormous_ bathtub was turned on and the drain closed to allow it to fill. Damn if he wasn’t jealous of this tub—it beat the hell out of his at the Sanctum which had to be a relic left over from the 1800s. Tony flopped onto the edge of it with the heaviest sigh in human history, the kind of sigh that only someone who had carried the fate of half the universe on their shoulders could breathe. Awkwardly he fumbled with the knot of his tie in an attempt to loosen it, but he was still a little too far on the drunk side for one-handed dexterity. Stephen wordlessly knelt down before him and put his shaky hands to work on it—which really wasn’t much better than a one-handed drunk. Finally he managed and slipped the lovely crimson silk from around his throat. It was deposited on the floor beside him while he began working the buttons of the newly stained, previously white dress shirt. Tony looked off to the side at nothing in particular the entire time. After a bit of a struggle and teamwork, Stephen managed to strip him down and helped him down into the steamy bath.  
     “Might as well get in, too. I’m sure you feel pretty gross right now.” His first words since leaving the rooftop left Strange with a quirked brow. Tony wasn’t wrong, though. Despite washing off and discarding his own foul suit jacket, it didn’t quite leave him satisfied like actually bathing would have. While getting puked on was mild in his long list of disgusting bodily secretions he had the misfortune of being the recipient of (Such fond memories of internship and residency…), it was still gross. So, with a small shrug, he undressed and carefully slipped in behind him with a quiet hum of contentment as the heat sank deep into stressed and bruised muscles. Even in a tub this large, he had to stretch his legs around Tony, but a few inches of free space remained between them. At least, until Tony scooted back flush against him and leaned his back to rest against Stephen’s chest. The intimate closeness took him off guard for a few good seconds, but upon seeing just how relaxed Tony appeared to be like that, he smiled a fraction and relaxed as well. Strange grabbed the sea sponge sitting off to the side, let it soak for a moment, then began gentle, languid strokes from his shoulders and down his arm. Gradually he moved over his chest, occasionally dipping the sponge back into the water.

     He was snoring. Tony Stark was snoring. Against his chest. In the bath. Stephen had never seen anything cuter or more precious in his life. It hurt his face for how wide he smiled. Tears blurred his vision, threatening to spill down his cheeks; Good tears of such immense relief and joy and love. He’d not let a day go by from now on without telling him he was loved no matter if the feeling was mutual or not. He’d say it until Stark was sick of it and then he’d say it some more. As long as he lived, Tony Stark would never again feel alone or unwanted or as though he had to shoulder his burdens by himself. Stephen blinked the wetness away from his eyes and leaned his head down to plant a kiss into his hair.  
     “Tony, you’re snoring.” He gave him a gentle nudge to the arm.  
     “I don’t snore.” His voice was dusted with grogginess.  
     “Mmhm,” Stephen reluctantly pushed him forward. “Come on, let’s get you in bed before you pass out on me.”  
     “No, I’m awake. I’m good.” Tony leaned forward a bit more to splash his face. Once again, Stephen found himself surprised, figuring he would be quick to get out and dressed and bundled up in bed where he could pretend to hide all his vulnerabilities. He let his eyes wander along the expanse of his back, those almost-translucent pale greens focusing on each and every scar. Too many. Maybe if people could see the physical tax he paid for their safety, they would be far less quick to judge him and far more grateful. He longed so badly to kiss every single one and show  the man just how thankful he was for all that he suffered. He wanted to replace every horrible memory with love and gratitude. Instead, Stephen dipped the sponge into the water again and began the same slow, caressing motions against his back as he had his chest. What remained of his tension was visibly washed away with each passing stroke; Stephen wondered idly when the last time anyone ever cared for him like this. Certainly Pepper had to of at least a few times, but maybe not if he had to judge based on body language alone. From his back, the sponge was dragged up along his neck and the groan that escaped from him was borderline erotic. Thankfully his grin went unseen. It made him tempted to channel a bit of dimensional magic into his hands to have the strength for a proper massage if only to hear him make those noises again. But, like many other urges springing to the front of his mind, he resisted and kept the focus on simply caring for him.  
     “I have to say I’m surprised you don’t have a personal masseuse.” Stephen commented with amusement dancing in his voice.  
     “How do you know I don’t?”  
     “You wouldn’t be making noises like _that_ if you did.”  
     “Touch é , Doc.” He might have been seeing things, or it might have been the heat of the water, but Stephen was fairly sure he could make out a hint of redness on what he could see of his cheeks.  
     “How are you feeling?” The question was broached gently while he made another pass against his neck. Tony tilted his head to the side slightly and the sponge glided down where it was silently invited, dipped into the curve at the crook and lazily came back up.  
     “Better.” Stark admitted quietly. “More like… myself.”  
     “I’ll ask the other Masters about some sort of therapy tomorrow. With the amount of mind-breaking bullshit we have to experience I’m sure they have some special way of dealing with it that could probably help you.”  
     Tony nodded and silence settled between them for a few moments, but then broke it again with a guarded question, one he could tell had taken some courage to ask.  
     “How have you kept it together so well?”  
     Stephen didn’t mean to, but he laughed softly and held up a hand when Stark turned to give him quite the stink eye. “I’m not laughing at you,” The sorcerer chuckled again. “It’s just… hm, how should I put it? I’m _not_ at all together. I haven’t been since my car did somersaults down a cliff, and I’m certainly not now. But, I also don’t get much down time to dwell on it like you’ve had these last six months. Honestly, therapy would do me some good, too.”  
     “I, uh… I’m sorry.” Tony said simply.  
     “Don’t be. Horrific as everything has been, I’ve come out a better person for it. And so will you.”  
     “Alright, Dr. Phil, why don’t you leave that to the professionals to determine.”

     Stephen wanted to argue but kept his mouth shut. It was neither the time nor place for it. Tony leaned forward and reached for the drain switch, flipping it open. It would have been a blatant lie to say Strange didn’t _stare_ at his magnificent backside when he stood and carefully stepped out of the tub. _That ass was a work of art._ Dripping across the floor, Tony made his way to the cabinets mounted on the walls to grab a couple of towels. One he tossed in Stephen’s direction and he caught it easily enough, though nearly slipped and fell backwards given he was in the process of getting out.  
     “Christ, a little warning, maybe?” Strange muttered as he started to pat himself dry.  
     Tony’s only response was a cheeky grin over his shoulder on his way out.

[](https://crossthegoldendelta.tumblr.com/post/184905641736/he-was-snoring-tony-stark-was-snoring-against)


	6. Chapter 6

     He swore he was now _too_ sober for this nonsense. And yet, the moment Stephen crawled in bed with him and pulled him into a very naked spoon, it was like a switch shut off in his head. What noise still chattered in the background vanished. Aside from that bath it had been _years_ since he had felt something as simple as skin contact with another human being. Years for him, thankfully turned back all due to his use of the gauntlet, but years he remembered still. It was comfort that he forgot could exist and, perhaps for the first time since before he was abducted in Afghanistan, Tony felt _safe._ It was pure, blissful peace, even if just a small measure of it. The weight had suddenly been lifted and Tony breathed a deep sigh of relief.  
     “You sure you’re okay with this?” Stephen’s voice was quiet, warm and gentle. Tony gave a small nod, hardly trusting his own voice to be more than a squeak for how utterly weak and exhausted and small he felt. And comfortable. The stump from his shoulder barely even registered as hurting. In his arms he felt something familiar—something like… home.

     At that exact moment, the epiphany dawned upon him.  
     This was how he _always_ felt when he was close to Stephen; Safe.

     Tony hadn’t been tolerating him over the months, he’d been making excuses to keep him around. He had been craving every moment with him, desperate for that sliver of sanity the sorcerer managed to protect. It was the reason Stephen was the only one he could talk to—the fear of judgement didn’t exist. Stephen never wanted to change him, never wanted anything from him, never expected anything of him. Despite _everything_ he had put the man through, he had remained by his side with everlasting patience and a determination to see him get better. Stephen had no reason to continue with his care, no reason to put up with his bullshit, no reason to even care about him—but he _did._ Not once did Tony ever witness him even think about giving up. The time spent with him was like finding a secret underground passage that opened up to its own hidden galaxy; Walls uncomfortably close together, terrified of getting trapped in the dark, and then stumbling into a beautifully strange environment that seemed to go on endlessly yet perfectly self-contained.  
     Stephen Strange had been the only glimmer of light to cling to as the void of his own mind engulfed him. He was the only reason he hadn’t tried to end it all so much earlier, and now that he really thought about it, the main reason he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leap just a couple hours ago. _It_ had been there all along, buried so deep beneath the turmoil that it went unnoticed—until he had stood on that ledge, oblivion whispering his name from below.  
     It struck Tony with such tremendous force it was like a physical blow and he ripped himself out of his arms to sit up, turned to face him and bore into his damn soul with widened eyes. Naturally, Stephen reacted as any normal person who couldn’t read minds would have—confused and worried. He shifted to sit up as well and reached out to place a scarred hand on his shoulder, yet as soon as his lips parted to form a question Tony was upon them with his own. Like he’d been struck by lightning, his hand jumped off Stark’s shoulder from the pure shock of what was happening, but gently it settled back into place and Stephen pressed into his lips. Slow and gentle, Tony savored each kiss like precious gifts.

     “I love you,” Tony whispered against his mouth and kissed again. “I love you,” Another kiss, and another, growing deeper and hungrier. “ _I love you._ ” Tony pulled away to push Stephen back down and hastily crawled on top of him where he eagerly dropped back down to devour his lips. Gradually, he laid himself down against him to take the strain off the only arm bearing weight. Stephen opened his mouth to him, meeting his tongue with his own to taste and tangle. Quivering hands glided along his sides and back, fingers spreading wide to touch every inch of flesh in their exploration. Tony moved against him and swallowed the rumble of a moan from his lips, encouraging those hands to slide down over his impeccable rear and assist in grinding and rolling. Heavy breaths and quiet gasps forced them apart finally, after time slowed to a crawl entwined in his lips. Tony met his eyes, hardly able to believe the intense heat, hunger, and desire burning like a wildfire blazing through drought-stricken lands within himself.    
     And then second wave of realization hit.  
_Oh God_ .  
     It exploded in his chest. He was _feeling_. It bloomed and spread and crushed the miserable numbness that had made its home there. It was an eruption of endorphins and dopamine and oxytocin and serotonin all at once, a powerful cocktail of pure happiness that he had been severely deprived of for entirely too long. His breath hitched. Stephen watched the journey of emotion on his face and had a pretty solid guess about what was about to happen next. Tony tried to hold it together but failed on an epic scale; His next breath was a choked sob that opened the floodgates to tears of emotion long thought dead.


	7. Chapter 7

     Tony’s lips crashed against his with the intensity of a summer thunderstorm built so suddenly from intense heat and pressure there were no chances at predicting it happening. Stephen found himself in bewildered shock for a few heartbeats, then melted against him with the love of fourteen million lifetimes. Logic, kicked to the fringes of his mind, screamed to stop and slow it down as neither of them were in a healthy enough headspace to go where the feverish kissing was leading them to. Love and lust were nearly unstoppable when a combined force and Stephen found himself surrendering to them frighteningly fast. There was a fire burning like ten thousand suns in the pit of his soul, igniting and growing brighter with every inch of skin his fingers glided across and he was certain it was going to consume his entire being when Tony pressed and rolled against him. Their lips parted and the logic that managed to cling to its last thread hurled itself to the forefront of his brain to cement its hold there.  
     The pause was meant for a breath, but as their eyes met Stephen could see something profound happening behind the dark, depthless browns that stared into something far and away. A novel’s worth of of emotions, some of which didn’t even have names, flooded his face and Stephen read it all and then some. Tony’s breath hitched on life itself as it burst out of the thick layers of negativity and depression. And then he was sobbing, face pressed into his collar. Oh, how he knew how that felt—too well. Chin dipped downward where he buried his nose into the softness of his hair and inhaled the scent of decades of machine oil, smoke, and metal. Of hard work, sweat, blood and tears all in the name of protection. It was the smell of home for Stephen.  
     Arms circled around his waist and back and Stephen rolled them both onto their sides, and there he lazily dragged his fingers against his back to draw out invisible runes and patterns for ancient spells. Each one intended to calm him, to bring him peace, to still the chaos still swirling in his head—if he were selfish enough to use magic for such a purpose. It wasn’t right and he knew it, but that never stopped him from wishing otherwise. His sobs ebbed gradually. Stephen planted kiss after kiss to his head, each followed by a softly whispered “I love you”, until Tony’s exhaustion finally took its toll and he wound up with the man asleep in his arms and face still buried into his throat. He let out a silent prayer to every God across the multiverse to give him the strength to keep him safe; Stephen knew this was only a battle they had won today—this was a war that would be waged for as long as he lived and Stephen vowed to be there by his side no matter how bleak the outcome seemed. The blankets were pulled up from their hips, a pillow was very carefully slipped under his head, and the arm beneath him moved beneath the pillow while his other stayed draped around him. Comfortable and finally relaxed knowing Tony was safe for the time being, Stephen allowed himself to give into sleep.

 

     Sunlight filtered in through a gap in the curtains, the single beam slowly moving across the bed until it streaked across Tony’s face. Brows furrowed a bit, head moving until it was out of the light’s reach. Slowly his eyes cracked open and drowsily blinked the world into focus. His world currently being a sleeping Stephen Strange that he laid face to face with. His heart swelled and a smile spread wide while drinking in his peaceful features. Tony had to wonder if maybe he was an actual angel for how otherworldly beautiful the man was. Since the day he stepped out of that portal in Central Park, Stark found him a particular sort of attractive, but now that he looked at him with the veil of darkness lifted from his mind, Tony truly saw his beauty both inside and out. His hand raised and gently swept aside a lock of dark but graying hair from his face, then let his knuckles trace the sharp line of his jaw until they reached the tip of his bearded chin. Soft as a whisper his thumb brushed against his lower lip that was barely parted from the top. Tony returned his gaze to his face only to find his eyes open and watching his face and felt his lips stretch into a small smile beneath the thumb still against them. It made his own grow wider, crinkling the outer edges of his eyes. From the cold, dead ashes of the soul he thought he had lost, a spark ignited and Tony swore he could feel it physically grow and warm him from the inside. Stephen tucked his chin enough to press a kiss to the back of his knuckles. For the first time in nearly a year, Tony actually found himself thinking beyond the moment, thinking about tomorrow, the next day, and so many days to follow.

     “How do you feel?” Stephen asked, lips still against his hand.  
     The answer didn’t come immediately. Tony took a long moment to _really_ think about that. For how simple of a question it was, it was also loaded with so many possible answers. There was only one that felt _right_ though. No matter how spectacular the glow-worms that dotted walls of stone like constellations, one had to eventually find the path out of that cavern, back to the sunlight and oxygen above ground. Stephen wasn’t the dazzling cave itself, Tony realized; He was the way out. With a quiet exhale, his smile brightened with a touch of life while at the same time it softened from love.

     “Hopeful.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Art by Memints! Thank you!!!


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